Starlight In Her Eyes
by PlatinumPizzaKiller
Summary: "She's sixteen now. Yes, she likes heart-shaped fruits, but she is also old enough to make certain decisions. Like go on a date." Katniss' little girl is growing up, and Katniss is most definitely not ready. Humor. Fluff. Oneshot.


I see it in her eyes before she has even spoken to me. They are brighter, glittering clearer than starlight. She's humming as she chops up beets, preparing them to make red frosting with. Peeta is next to her, cutting off the uneven parts of a cake. I walk up behind them. "What are you doing?"

They both jump. I don't think either of them are used to my soundless arrival. "We're not making you a cake," she says, then bites her lip. "I mean, we're not—" She groans, not even bothering to finish her sentence.

I can't help but smile. One thing my daughter cannot do is lie, and for that, I'm almost proud. There is enough deceit on this planet without my daughter adding to it.

"Sorry," she tells Peeta.

Peeta is smiling at her, too, with the same fondness he had looked at her with when she was first placed in his arms. "Don't worry about, sweetheart. Go clean up, you've helped tons."

"Okay," she says quickly. This, again, catches my attention. Usually, she would spend hours in the kitchen with Peeta, baking and frosting and cutting, but right now, she seems eager to leave.

I ask her, "Are you going somewhere?"

She freezes in the midst of removing her apron. "Um…" She glances up at me, then back down. "Yeah, I'm just going to, you know, the meadow. Well, the woods. But near the meadow."

"By yourself?" Peeta asks, looking at me. Usually I am the one to take her there, when I go hunting.

My daughter reddens. "I'm, um, actually going with…a friend."

Peeta and I share a glance. Right. She is stammering and blushing over "a friend". Peeta, ever so nonchalantly, asks, "Oh. Which friend?"

Her cheeks are as red as the beet juice on her fingers. "Just, uh…Odin." The name comes out as barely a whisper.

I wrack my brain for this "Odin", and am returned with images of a thin, light-haired boy in my daughter's grade, who occasionally gives me a shy "hello" when I pass him by. His father, originally from District 5, buys my blueberries during my daily rounds. I faintly recall the boy behind the old apothecary shop's counter, grinding herbs and pouring them into jars. Odin. That's right, Odin. The boy with the herbs. The boy who currently has my daughter beet red, her eyes glued to the ground.

"Odin," I say. "You have a date with him?"

"No!" She blurts out. "He, just…asked me. I don't…we're not…"

Peeta looks almost in awe. When he looks at me, his face is in a soft reverie, not twisted in panic, as I know mine is.

"Is he coming here to pick you up?" I manage to ask through my shock. What I mean to ask is, is he coming here so that I can interrogate every part of him and their date?

She nods. "He's coming at six."

I look at the clock behind her. 5:45. I feel my heart start to beat faster. That's not enough time!

"Plenty of time," Peeta says. "Why don't you go get ready?"

My daughter shoots him a small grin before rushing out of the kitchen, footsteps thudding upstairs. I hear her door close.

All I'm thinking is that she had held my finger as I led her to the stream where katniss grew, and she had giggled so much when I told her that the pointed plants under the water were me. One day I had walked into the kitchen to find Peeta and her on the floor, covered head to toe in orange frosting, laughing. I had pulled her hair back into a braid on her first day at school, and she had claimed in wonder that she looked just like me. Peeta bought her bows for her hair, lace ones, with a blue trim, and I had tied it at the end of her tiny braid.

"Katniss?" Peeta asks me. "Are you…alright?"

"She likes bows in her hair, Peeta!" I say, "She lets out spiders so that I won't kill them. She likes heart-shaped fruit. Heart-shaped fruit, Peeta!"

"Hey," Peeta's voice is soft as reaches for my hands, wrapping them in his own. "She's sixteen now. Yes, she likes heart-shaped fruits, but she is also old enough to make certain decisions. Like go on a date."

He's right. Of course he is. That doesn't make me less frightened. The anguish I feel in my chest whenever she is hurt is incomparable, and I make sure I take every step to prevent anything from causing her pain. The absolute same for her brother. And now, to let some teenage boy paw her around and then break her heart…

I hear her feet thudding down the stairs. Peeta releases one my hands but keeps a hold of the other. I grasp on for dear life.

When my daughter enters the kitchen, in a flowing blue skirt and a white blouse, I suddenly realize that she is grown. She stands tall, taller than me, and her little stub of a braid now reaches her waist. Her eyes are Peeta's, but I am startled by how much she looks like me.

"You look beautiful," I find myself telling her.

She grins at me. That smile is neither mine nor Peeta's; it's all hers. "Thanks, Mom."

There is a knock at the door, three sharp raps then silence. I look at the clock. Five minutes to six. He's early.

"I'll get it!" My daughter says.

"That's alright," I say, beating her to the door, Peeta at my side.

The boy that greets us has grown older since the last time I saw him. He is taller now, his auburn hair longer. His face is bright red as he sees us. "Oh, uh, hello, Mr. and Mrs. Mellark. I'm Odin. I'm here to, um, pick up your daughter."

"Hi, Odin," Peeta says, a bit too smiley for my liking.

"Why don't you come in for a second." My words are a command, not a suggestion. The boy nods, then swallows.

As he enters, I see that he is holding a bouquet of small yellow flowers, a kind that I will recognize on any end of the earth. Primroses. My breath catches, but Peeta's hand steadies me.

My daughter enters the room. I scrutinize Odin's face as she does. Through his nervousness, his eyes seem to soften. A smile pulls at his lip. "Hi," he says.

"Hi," my daughter says shyly.

"I, um, got you these," he says, thrusting the primroses at her.

Her face lights up. "Oh, thank you! Wow, let me go put these in some water." She takes the bouquet and disappears into the kitchen, leaving Odin alone with Peeta and I.

"So, Odin," Peeta starts, "Are you and my daughter in the same classes together?"

He nods quickly. "Yes, we're in math together, and English, and a whole bunch from other years."

I search my mind for matters of small talk, but then again, I've never been that kind of person. I say, "Where are you two planning on going tonight?"

"The meadow, ma'am," he answers, barely meeting my eyes, "I've prepared some food for a picnic."

"How nice," Peeta says, and I nod once. I'm almost impressed.

"When will you be back?" I ask.

"Eight o'clock, and no later."

At this our daughter makes a reappearance. She smiles at Odin. "Ready?"

"Ready," he says. He steps onto the porch, waiting.

Our daughter turns to us, shooting us both a quick grin. "I'll see you, Dad, Mom."

"See you," we echo.

She turns around, widening the door, about to step out, when I choke out, "Wait!"

She turns back around, probably detecting the catch in my voice. "Mom?"

Hoping she cannot see my hands quivering, I force back the tears, and smile at her. "Your shirt isn't tucked in, little duck."

She giggles. I reach forward to fix it but she beats me to it, her hand quickly tucking in the loose fabric. "Better?"

My hand falls to my side. "Better," I say.

"Bye, mom!"

"Bye, darling," I whisper, catching a glimpse of a waving hand before the door closes. I immediately go to the window and lift the curtain, watching the two figures holding hands getting smaller and smaller. In their gait, their laughter, I see a small girl, clutching my hand as a fever keeps her awake at night. I see her take her first steps, tumbling down after a few paces but smiling despite her fall. I see another young girl who could never keep her shirt tucked in, another young girl who had grown up much too fast.

"Katniss?" Peeta says softly, "They're gone."

And so they are. All that is left in front of my house is the golden sun's gleam on the grass. I turn to Peeta, clutching both of his hands. "She's sixteen," I say, my voice in a hush.

Peeta pulls me close. "I know."

"There's only two of us in this house, right now."

"Well, he's going to be back by eight," Peeta says. By "he" Peeta means our son, who has gone with his friends to play kickball, a luxury very few from my childhood ever had.

"You know what I mean," I whisper. "It will be just us two. Soon." I need something to distract me from this immense fear threatening to swallow me. "When was your first date?"

I feel him sneak a curious glance at me. "My first date? Um…I think I was fifteen."

"Who was it with?"

If he feels uncomfortable, he does not show it. Instead he guides me to the sofa and sits down with me. "Fern," he says. "Fern Slater. You remember her."

It takes me a moment, but I place her. She was the seamstress' daughter. The seamstress a few stores down from the bakery, not the one beside the butcher's. Fern Slater. Long and willow, blue eyes and hazel hair, merchant-born and merchant-raised. That Fern Slater.

A name from so long ago stirs feelings I do not expect. Whatever happened to her? Why can I not place her face or name out of context from our childhood? My anxiety is growing, not lessening.

The date. Focus on Peeta's first date. "It makes sense," I finally say, "She was completely your type."

"Oh?" Peeta sounds amused. "How so?"

Tall and beautiful, outgoing and well-liked. She lived close to him. They must have played together, grown up together. And, of course, her future wasn't in mining.

Instead I dodge the question and ask one of my own. "Where was your date?"

Peeta's face scrunches in thought. "Let's see…there was this place behind the butcher's—or was it the apothecary—it was a clearing, a small concrete one hidden completely from view. I didn't even know it existed until she took me there."

"It sounds like the perfect place for a murder," I muse.

He nudges me with his shoulder. "Katniss," he scolds.

"I am kidding," I say. "What did you do in that mysterious clearing?"

He purses his lips. "I…honestly don't remember. Huh. I think…we ate berries. Yes, I remember berries."

"Berries," I say.

"Berries." He looks at my expression and breaks into laughter. "We were fifteen, Katniss. And I wasn't in love with her."

"Well, good. You were _fifteen_."

"Don't sound so condescending." He fixes those good-humored blue eyes on me. "I was in love with you."

I roll my eyes, but even after all this years and scars and memories, heat rushes to my face. Memories of flitting blue eyes and bread burning my chest in the rain are rising. My fingers fidget in Peeta's but they still when he raises them to his lips for a kiss.

"If only I'd asked you on a date," he muses.

I humor him. "Where would we go?"

"The meadow," he says. "Right after school."

"And what would we do?"

"I would pack us a picnic," he grins. "Dill sandwiches, made from freshly baked bread. Cheese buns. And, of course, white cake to finish off. We would eat and watch the sunset."

Oh, the beating he would receive if he had tried to pack these. I tilt my head up to kiss him. "I would have fallen in love right there," I tell him, truth or not. Considering the circumstances. Who knows what would've happened if, so many years ago, the boy with the bread had asked me on a date.

Warm silence engulfs the room. I try not to think of my daughter but feel myself slipping. Only when he kisses my fingers again do I know that I am fidgeting. "Want to help me finish your surprise cake?" I nod, and he leads me to the kitchen.

We spend the next few hours frosting cake and preparing dinner. He makes me laugh several times, and I can't help but think how I fall in love with him every day. It is with this thought that I kiss him, a hand on his cheek, cutting him off in the middle of a sentence. And it is during this kiss that my son barges into the kitchen, announcing his arrival with a "Hi, Mom, hi Da—Eww!"

I draw back to see a boy with a scowl that looks so much like my own. "You're back!" Peeta quickly says. "How was the game?"

The scowl is easily replaced by a toothy grin. "We won! Eight nothing, Dad. Eight _nothing_!"

"Good for you!" Peeta looks genuinely proud.

Our son bounds over to us and peers at the cake. "Where are the roses? On the trim?"

Peeta laughs. "I haven't gotten there, yet."

"Can I do it? Please? I have been practising."

"I know." Peeta's voice is filled with quiet pride. "You're even better than I am."

"Yeah, right," my son is saying, but I am just watching that bouncing boy, who, thank the stars, is still shorter than me. I suddenly pull my son back, clutching my arms around him. He squeaks at the abrupt hug, then laughs. "Mom!" he says.

"Go take a bath," I say. At his groan, I say, "Then you can have dinner and frost the cake."

"Fine," he says. He allows me to plant a kiss on those blond curls before he shoots off, bounding up the stairs two at a time. I watch him go. Soon _he_ will be packing sandwiches for a girl. But not yet. Not yet.

Peeta kisses me on the ear and we return to preparing dinner, chopping vegetables and roasting the meat.

At fifteen minutes to eight, I plant myself on the couch by the entrance. The minutes trickle by, and soon, it is past eight and I am beyond myself. "Something's gone wrong," I say, pacing the floor and clutching my hands.

"Katniss," says Peeta.

"They shouldn't be this late. Why are they this late? Do you know what happens this late?"

"Katniss," he tries again.

"They're just kids, Peeta! Who knows what could've happened? Who knows what they're doing right now? I should go after them. Where is my bow?"

"Katniss!" At this, there is a knock at the door. "It is only four minutes past eight," Peeta tells me.

But I am only half listening as I march to the door and fling it open. There stands my daughter and Odin, both perfectly safe. I drink in her image, knowing she is okay, she is okay, she is okay. I think I finally exhale. "It is past eight," I tell them.

She rushes in with her words. "I know, Mom, it was completely my fault—"

"No, no, Mrs. Ever—ma'am, it was mine. I don't—"

"No, Odin, it was me—"

"Trust me, it was my respon—"

"It's okay," I say, feeling the breaths come naturally, now. I feel Peeta's presence at my side and say, "You are only four minutes past eight. But don't," I hiss, "let it happen again."

The boy shakes his head furiously. "No, ma'am."

"Did you have a good time?" Peeta asks the two, sounding much too amused for my liking.

"Yes," they say in unison.

"I'm glad to hear that. Thanks for dropping her home," Peeta tells the boy. "Goodnight, Odin."

"Goodnight Mr. Mellark. Ma'am." He looks at my daughter, and again, I see something in his eyes soften. "Goodnight," he tells her. "I'll see you later?"

"Of course," my daughter smiles, now safely at my side. "Goodnight, Odin. And thank you."

Peeta waves off the boy before we finally close the door. I look at my daughter. Really look at her. She is beaming, smiling in a way I have never seen before. There is more starlight in her eyes than there are in the heavens. I knew it. I knew it when I first saw it. I just don't want to believe it. My little girl is dabbling her feet in the water that is love. I just hope it is a while before she makes the jump.

My shoulders slump, defeated. I kiss her dark hair and ask, "You had a good time?"

My daughter nods, her cheeks still on fire. "Oh, yes, Mom. Odin is so kind."

Peeta and I share a look. Of all the words to describe the boy, my daughter had chosen _kind_. Perhaps I should not be this worried, after all.

"Well," Peeta says, "Freshen up for dinner, sweetheart. It'll be ready in fifteen."

"Oh," my daughter says, "I've already eaten. He packed us sandwiches."

Peeta gives me a look from across the room. _You see?_ It seems to say. I just roll my eyes.

My daughter continues, "But I could have something small. Fruit, perhaps."

"Alright," Peeta says. "We'll get that ready for you. You get changed."

"Thanks, Dad," she grins, twirling on her feet with her braid swinging out behind her. She stops suddenly at the bottom of the staircase. She turns back around to face me as I am reaching for the apples. "Mom?" she says.

"Yes?"

"Could you cut them into hearts, please?"

I do not know whether I want to laugh or cry. "I wouldn't cut them any other way," I say. She grins at me before bounding up the stairs.

Now it is just the two of us. Peeta and I stand alone in the kitchen, quietly cutting fruits and sautéing vegetables. We are alone, just like we had been for so many years before the kids. We are alone, just like we will be one day again.


End file.
